


fallback

by bangboozle



Category: DRAMAtical Murder (Visual Novel), DRAMAtical Murder - All Media Types
Genre: Background Character, Drinking, Drunk Kisses, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Minor Character Death, Molestation, Night Clubs, Public Display of Affection, Violence, trip being antisocial, trip week 2k15, virus being social
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-08
Updated: 2015-05-08
Packaged: 2018-03-29 12:55:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,879
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3897130
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bangboozle/pseuds/bangboozle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes, Virus gets too drunk for his own good.</p>
            </blockquote>





	fallback

     Sometimes, Virus gets too drunk for his own good.

     Trip knows Virus is aware of this, but his partner doesn’t seem to care. Clubs in Platinum Jail let them in without batting an eyelash, which has definitely made the premise of alcohol and a social setting much more tantalizing for Virus especially.

     Trip lets the older man do his own thing--he’s confident that Virus will shove him off if he doesn’t need him--so Virus decides to drag him along this time. Trip’s not sure why Virus wants him there in the first place: maybe it’s because Virus knows that Trip will gravitate to the sweets table like a moth to a flame, or because they’ve both agreed to stay out of each other’s business unless completely necessary.

     Or, maybe, someone to pay attention to Virus when no one else will.

     But tonight seems to be different. Trip suspects it’s because Virus drank one glass of wine too many while they were preparing to leave. He hasn’t said a word. He doesn’t dare to.

     Nor does he dare to say anything when he perches against the wall of the long, banquet-like tables full of sweets, watching Virus order another drink from the bar. And another.

     Instead, he opts for popping one of the dainty sweets into his mouth, chewing slowly and boredly. To Trip, all sugary sweets taste the same; they all have the mealy chew of dough paired with the tame tang of artificial fruit or the bitterness of melted chocolate drizzle, poorly masked by the consoling fluff of whipped cream or custard.

     Sweets may be boring, but that uniform taste gets him every time.

     After finishing the delicate thing, Trip glances back up to the bar. At first, he doesn’t react to the man with sandy brown hair. He doesn’t speak a word when his comrade places a hand gently on the man’s chest.

     Virus getting this kind attention really isn’t a new concept to Trip--the guy’s ego is big enough to house the entire population of Japan--but the knowledge of Virus’s intoxication makes something tug on the inside of Trip’s stomach.

     That’s one of the many concealed differences between the two of them. Trip’s gotten attention from countless girls before, been prodded and coddled. But it doesn’t seem to fit him. Being formerly violent by nature, it only makes him uncomfortable when people throw themselves at him like they _want_ to be pushed around.

     He doesn’t like to play those games. Virus, on the other hand, seems to.

     Trip’s eyes narrow as he watches Virus flash the man a charismatic smile (albeit a bit sloppier than normal due to the amount of alcohol that’s present in his system) and mouth a few words into the guy’s ear, like he’s telling him a secret that Trip already knows. The man smiles back, something wicked that, again, makes Trip’s stomach churn.

     Those smiles are nothing but fake. Nothing but an illusion, like the rest of Virus. It’s a sort of fallback the guy has; he can operate under that polite, charming facade, even if he’s unconsciously doing it. It’s something that has been inculcated into Virus so many times, so that it’s hardwired into his brain.

     For a fraction of a second, Virus’s eyes meet Trip’s, and all the latter sees is confusion.

     The man is not throwing himself at Virus. Virus is not rejecting him with a smirk like all the other admirers that have approached him.

     Trip, once again, says nothing. However, his feet start to lurch him forward. Trip weaves his way through the crowd, broad shoulders making him knock a few drinks out of people’s hands. Trip doesn’t open his mouth for a mild-mannered excuse; his thin lips remain closed, except for his tongue to sweep away the remains of custard (or whipped cream; he can’t remember.)

     The place is fucking huge: an enormous, dark room with high ceilings and multiple floors that are saturated with drunk people who couldn’t give a damn if someone dropped dead on the dance floor.

     Virus’s gaze moves from the mystery man of the hour to Trip as he approaches, smile flickering just slightly as his comrade stands behind him. The bar is densely concentrated with women clinging to one another and men slapping each other too hard on the back, and Trip immediately feels his muscles tense.

     Upon closer inspection, the man that’s been talking to Virus seems to be in his mid-thirties. Tall, with tanned skin and eyes that seem too sunken in, like he’s been punched in the face too many times. His smile has the same undertone of danger that Virus’s has. But his is easier to detect--it’s less elegant compared to that of Virus.

     But all these factors aren’t the worst of it. It’s that the guy is so _close_ to Virus, his hot breath hitting the other’s face as he speaks slurred words that Trip can’t seem to understand quite yet.

     Virus seems to know that Trip’s there, but doesn’t say a word. In fact, he’s completely quiet for once, staying still as the man’s face moves closer to his own. The brown-haired guy is so sloshed that he barely notices Trip placing a hand on his partner’s shoulder.

 

_You don’t have to notice me._

_You don’t have to care._

_But I’m still here._

 

     “Come back with me,” the brown-haired man urges, with too much sugar in his voice. “Come back and let me feel you up.”

     At this point, if it were any other day, Virus would’ve respectfully bowed out and left. But this time, nothing. Virus is still looking at the man, nothing showing in his crystalline blue eyes.

     The grip the damned skeeze has on Virus’s wrists tightens when he doesn’t get a response.

     “I want to touch you,” he murmurs in what Trip guesses is intended to be a sexy tone. Virus takes a while to process it, then nods. Slowly.

     “Let me go, Trip,” he says, words soft and measured, like he’s an old man on his deathbed. Trip complies reflexively, and Virus is gone before everything clicks.

     That man is not throwing himself at Virus. He’s making Virus throw himself at him. Objectifying him, making him nothing more than a ragdoll. That’s not Virus. That’s not the one beam of light that Trip can see through the mass of dark souls that stick together like peanut butter to the roof of his mouth.

     For the first time, Trip speaks.

     “...Fucker.”

 

     By the time Trip finds the two of them, Virus is being pinned up against the damp wall adjacent to the bar by the brown-haired slimeball, his greasy hands lifting the hem of Virus’s button-up to expose his flat stomach.

     Trip freezes in place, watching as the hand continues to move upwards until all of Virus’s chest can be seen. It’s pale skin that glows slightly under the moody lighting of the night club.

     As his body cascades forward, Trip remembers first meeting Virus.

     As his arms pull greasy hair back, Trip remembers pure white emanating from his future colleague.

     As both strong, calloused hands fit themselves on the man’s jaw and twist harshly, Trip remembers the stench of bleach burning his nose.

     The crack is barely noticed by the fluid mosaic that is the mob, too entranced by their own illusions to notice that anything is different.

     Virus is still pressed against the wall, watching the events unfold. Trip steps closer to him, looking him over with more care than usual. Virus’s shirt is wrinkled, glasses knocked askew and spiked hair slightly more messy than before.

     Trip freezes again when Virus leans in to speak in his ear above the din of thumping music and sweaty, rowdy people.

     “You’re an idiot. I could’ve fought him off alone.”

     Trip shrugs. ”Sorry.”

     Virus’s voice in his ear makes his skin prickle in the most delightful way, even though he changes the subject entirely.

     “What’re you going to do about his dead body on the floor, hm?”

 

_You don’t have to notice me._

_You don’t have to care._

_Please, just keep talking._

     “...Leave it there.”

     Virus smiles wryly against Trip’s ear as the bottle-blond responds, teeth just slightly brushing against the pale, freckled skin there.

     “You’re such a fucking simpleton.” The causticity of his words causes a wave of shivers to travel down Trip’s spine.

     Trip scoffs in response. “Not my fault you’re so damn complicated.”

     He knows Virus is still drunk. He knows this is just a ruse, because Virus needs attention and Trip’s okay with giving it to him.

     For now, the way Virus’s arms are encircling his neck and pulling him closer mean nothing. The way Virus touches their foreheads together in a numbly tender way means nothing. The way Virus’s knee rubs up against Trip’s groin means nothing.

     “Make me simpler, then. Enlighten me,” he says with amusement, words melding together mellifluously.

     Trip gives in at those words, closing the distance between them quickly and easily. No games. No strings attached.

     Virus’s lips are cool with the ice of previous drinks, and cooler still when they part for him, letting Trip’s tongue push inwards to slide gently against his own.

     Trip understands why people want this from Virus, just from how tender his kisses are. How they taste cool and sweet from the drinks made with artificial fruit sweeteners to mask the stench of alcohol in the most perfect way. How they treat Trip’s lips and tongue like they’re the best he’s ever seen, when they’re really nothing more than just that: lips and a tongue.

     They part after a few moments, Virus’s lips moving to his ear again.

     “You want to know why I talked to that man in the first place, don’t you?”  
     “I already know the answer,” Trip replies, the high from Virus’s kiss making his voice a bit less firm. “You’re drunk as fuck, that’s why.”

     “Maybe,” Virus chuckles in a sing-song way, “but I’ve had many admirers like him…”

     Trip tunes out for a fraction of a second because holy hell, that knee rubbing against his crotch feels nice. He can feel his arousal starting to push against the cloth of his pants.

     “...and now I wanted to try you out.” Another little laugh.

     Try him out. Trip’s okay with that. It’s not like he’d be able to stand a long-standing romantic relationship with Virus, anyway. The guy is so high-maintenance that Trip would probably end up serving him like some sort of housemaid.

     He nods. “Okay.”

     “Now, let’s go home,” Virus murmurs, leaning in to give Trip’s lip a teasing nip. He smiles lightly, a silent reminder to Trip of his current drunken state. “We can’t be seen here like this.”

 

      In the end, Virus’s body gives up on him, crashing as soon as he hits the mattress. Trip watches his chest move up and down evenly, as if each breath is deliberate. Knowing that it’ll be the last of Virus’s concerns in the morning, Trip lies down next to him, letting his eyes close and his ears tune in to the sound of Virus’s gentle breathing.

 

_You don’t have to notice me._

_You don’t have to care._

_But I’ve been doing something right._

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> i wrote this in two hours i'm sorry if i made no sense


End file.
